One Small Touch
by phoenixreal
Summary: Slight AU. Sherlock is hapnophobic (afraid of touch), and finds himself allowing John inside that barrier. Then, on a case, when a desperate killer is discovered on scene, he grabs Sherlock, and triggers a devastating flashback to something Sherlock can't really remember. John seeks to do some investigating and finds a blog post by a dying man... Warning: Graphic Non-con memory
1. Chapter 1: Water at the Floodgates

**One Small Touch**

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_A/N: No longer a one shot. Enjoy. Rating may go up later, depends on the direction of the fic.  
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**Chapter One**

_Water at the Floodgates  
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It started without him even realizing it. Honestly, he never intended for things to turn out the way they did. A flamate, that was it. A flatmate that would keep an eye on him in lieu of his confounding and interfering elder brother. He could handle that. Besides, he wasn't allowed to go to Lestrade's crime scenes if he slipped into old habits, and it was far better to be on a crime scene than it was to have a few hours of bliss. But his brother was insistent. And so, Sherlock found John. And he was pleased that the ex-military doctor was interested in his cases and The Work as much as he was. And before long, the inevitable happened.

John touched him. Nothing big. Just a brushing glance as he handed him a teacup, but it wasn't the touch itself that shocked Sherlock to his core. No, a small touch wasn't what did it. It was his _reaction_ to that small touch. Because Sherlock was severely hapnophobic. So much so that it was difficult to bring himself to touch anyone without gloves on. And he tended to flinch away when others tried to touch him, and if someone tried to grab him, he tended to lash out. He knew it was extremely irrational for a man with such a rational mind. But somewhere, buried in his mind palace, there was a reason for it. He chose to instead live with it rather than discover the reason.

"Sherlock?" John's voice.

He blinked and looked up. "Yes, John?"

"You've been staring at the teacup for almost half an hour. Your tea is probably cold by now."

Sherlock blinked and stared at the cup and then back up to John. He let his eyes drift to the clock. He blinked. He hadn't lost time like that in a while, he thought to himself, and downed the cold tea quickly. If he didn't drink it, John would be unhappy. And Sherlock didn't want John to be unhappy.

"Is something wrong? Not sick are you?" John asked, taking the empty cup and saucer from the unusually quiet detective.

"Ah, no, m'fine," he mumbled and got to his feet and escaped to his bedroom in a blur, leaving John staring after him. Sherlock needed to think about this.

"So, Sherlock's acting weird," John said, over a pint at the pub.

"John, when you gonna get it through that brain, Sherlock's always weird," Lestrade said, words slightly slurring. Greg was having issues with his wife again. Third time he'd caught her cheating, and he was at a loss for what to do.

"No, like really weird, for Sherlock. He's quiet."

Lestrade perked a brow. "Now that is weird."

"I don't know what happened. I handed him some tea a few days ago and he stared at it like it was some strange object for a long time, then ran off to his room. Haven't seen him much since, and when he does come out he sprawls over the sofa and stares at the ceiling. He hasn't had a case, either, so I figured by now he'd be shooting the walls or at least complaining of boredom," John said, sipping his drink slowly. He didn't come to get drunk, just to make sure Greg got home okay.

"If…oh, did you touch him when ya gave it to 'im?" Greg said, leaning forward and looking at John with drunk intensity.

John blinked. "Um, maybe?"

"There ya go."

John's brow wrinkled. "I don't understand, Greg…"

"He's…he's hap…hap…no…oh fuck it. Scared of bein' touched ya know. Don't let anyone touch him. One of tha reasons Anderson hates him is Phillip decided to grab him by the shoulders on one of th' first scenes he came on and Sher'k broked his nose! Freaked the fuck out and I had to make him leave 'fore he punched someone else. Fer a skinny bastard he hits hard, y'know," he said nodding and rubbing his chin, having obviously been on the receiving end at one time or another.

John thought. "Hapnophobic?"

Greg lit up. "That's it! Of course'n ya'd know, doc and all."

"But…he wasn't showing a phobic reaction, Greg. He didn't panic."

Greg grinned. "Yeah, tha', m'friend, means sumptin. Trus me."

"Greg, you are too drunk. Let's get a cab and send you home, mate," John said fondly. He figured if he was slurring enough that John was having trouble understanding him, it must be time to send him home.

Once he was situated in the cab, John opted to walk home and think. It was muggy. He had never really thought much about Sherlock and his touching or being touched by others. So he decided that best way to start was to simply do as Sherlock did. Observe.

John didn't have to wait long. The next day, around eight, he was awoken by an excitable Sherlock telling him to get dressed, Lestrade had a case. He groaned and rolled from bed to shower and change, rushing to catch the lanky detective before he jumped in the cab he'd magically hailed. John had no idea how in the world he did it. It seemed like the moment he needed a cab, poof, and one came to Sherlock. He could stand out front of 221B for an hour and never get one, Sherlock, less than a minute. He shook his head and listened as Sherlock rattled off the address and smirked.

"Good one?" John asked.

"Murder/suicide by the appearance, but Lestrade thinks it's staged, so we're looking at a seven, maybe eight," he said with that smirk he got when he was on an exciting case.

Sherlock was out and heading toward the tape before John could finish paying the cabbie. He followed shortly thereafter, finding Sherlock already going over the room, his pocket magnifier out and studious. Suddenly he stood and backed away from the bodies and glanced around. He'd taken off his coat and laid it on a chair as he came in, it was early fall, and while a little crisp outside, it was warm inside the building. The heat was on, it seemed.

"What is it, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, standing and planting hands on his hips. John could see the pain wrinkling the forehead. He had to have a nasty hangover after the night before, he thought.

"Wait…wait…" he muttered, looking around. "But, no, that means that the killer…" he muttered and his eyes landed on a slatted closet door.

It was one of those things that happened so quickly that no one realized what had happened until everything was over. The door to the closet burst outward with a bang, startling everyone, and Sherlock was closest to it, tried to duck the flying door, obviously kicked from the other side, snapping the wood that held it. His duck wasn't entirely successful since it grazed the back of his head, and then there was a hand buried in his dark curls, yanking his head back up from the crouched position he'd been in, and the man had a glittering blade at the detective's throat.

He was a plain man, wearing a white t-shirt and a black jeans. He had a common face with dark hair and deep set eyes. His nose was average, and his lips were nothing special. But the knife was dripping blood already, and was digging in close to the artery in Sherlock's neck. His eyes had gone wide, and his hands were trying to pry the hand off his head.

"Settle down, spaz," he growled at Sherlock who ceased his struggle and became very still.

There were enough officers in the room to take the man on, but it was John who had his own gun trained on the spot between the man's eyes.

"Let him go," John growled low.

Sherlock's eyes though weren't present, and his body was going limp under the man's hand. At first, John thought it was a ploy on Sherlock's part, but then the guy let go of his hair to get a better grip on his slumping shoulders, and Sherlock's body shook violently. John took the opportunity and shot the man in the shoulder of the arm that held the knife. He screamed, dropping Sherlock, who had gone completely limp, and stayed on the ground where he dropped. The knife wielder had dropped the knife and was rugby tackled by a couple officers. John dropped beside Sherlock and shook him. He heard the intake of breath from behind him, Anderson, he thought to himself.

"Sherlock, you okay?" he asked.

He opened his eyes, and John knew the signs of a serious panic when he saw one. He smiled at him. "Hey, just you and me, Sherlock, he's gone. Shot the bastard. What he gets, you know," he said, reaching out and running hands over the dark curls. "You got hit with the door, your head okay?"

He felt around and only felt a nice lump forming on the back of his skull. "You're hard headed, so you're fine. Want to get up?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes not leaving John's for a second. "Okay, then, let me sit down here, then," he said, moving from his crouch to a sitting position, hands still running through his hair.

"What's going on, John?" Greg asked from behind him.

He shook his head. "Not entirely sure, but it looks like he's in some kind of flashback, it started when that guy grabbed him by the hair, I saw his body change. Not that I'm unfamiliar with them."

"Flashback?" Anderson asked. "Like from PTSD?"

John nodded. "Yeah, exactly. His eyes aren't seeing here, and he's barely hearing me. His heart rate and breath are accelerated, and pupil response isn't normal. He's somewhat in the present. Give him a minute."

John grabbed one of his hands and found it gripped by the bony hand tighter than he expected possible for the thinner man. "Shh, Sherlock, can you hear me yet?"

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "J-John?" he asked.

"Yes, are you here? I'd like to take you home, do you want to go?" he asked gently, squeezing his hand back.

He blinked, his eyes finally unlocking and seeing John. "Oh…" he said softly, and pulled himself to a sitting position, scrubbing his face. "I thought…oh…I thought I deleted that…oh, not…should have gone away…"

John saw that his hands were shaking as he dropped them between his knees. "Yeah, home, good," he said, still dazed looking.

John nodded and stood, helping him up. Greg, Sally and Anderson watched as John almost manhandled him to his feet, holding him under his arm, and steadying him. He led him out and the magical cab summoning once again succeeded. Sherlock was quiet all the way to the flat, then got out and went in mechanically, to sit on the sofa, dropping his head into his hands. John fixed tea, because everyone knows tea fixes everything, and sat beside Sherlock.

"Want to talk about it? It helps, you know. Experience here," John said, sipping his tea.

Sherlock looked at him and frowned. "What do you mean, John?" he asked.

John sighed. "Sherlock, I know a flashback when I see one. Remember?"

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his hands together and looking off across the room. "I don't remember a lot. When the door burst I knew it was the killer, so I was ready, but then when I had to duck, and he grabbed my hair, I just…something felt weird. I was…wasn't there, but I was there. It was him, but it wasn't. I couldn't tell, I just felt completely helpless, and alone and overwhelmed and I didn't know what else to do, and so…scared. John, I'm never scared like that. I mean, I did deck Anderson for grabbing me once, but it was a heightened response. This…this was different. I couldn't _move_."

"Sounds like a flashback, Sherlock. You're going to need to get through whatever caused it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I think I deleted the event…"

"You know, Sherlock, sometimes it's hard to delete something that's too big. Maybe that's what happened. Do you know when the event happened?"

He swallowed. "I think…at Uni…"

"Well, for now, you should rest," John said, laying a hand on his leg and patting him.

"I don't understand," he said softly, staring at John's hand.

John arched a blond brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, it doesn't bother me, when it's you, John…" he said, frowning at John's hand now. "I've never…not even Mycroft…he knows better…." He said softly. "I remember being hugged before Uni, and then after Uni…no more…couldn't stand to be touched by anyone."

"You rest, Sherlock. I'll see what I can figure out," John said, and despite what he thought, he didn't argue, simply got up and went to bed. After a while, he check on him to find him sound asleep. It wasn't even noon yet, he thought. He picked up the phone.

_Mycroft, have a question if you have _ he texted.

A few minutes later, the phone rang in his hand. He jumped and answered.

"Yes, John?" came the impeccable voice on the other side.

"I was wondering if you knew what happened at Uni with Sherlock. He's started having flashbacks and doesn't remember clearly enough to know what is causing them," John said, no reason to beat around the bush.

There was a long pause. "I wish I did, John. But that was the time he first got into drugs, and came out changed. I'm not really sure what could have happened to cause something like flashbacks. I'll investigate on my end, however."

The call clicked off, and John was left confused and wondering how he could help Sherlock. Something was buried in his psyche and it was working its way to the surface. Whatever it was, Sherlock didn't want it to come out, but John knew that ignoring something that major did nothing but make it worse. He sighed and grabbed his laptop to look up information on Sherlock's class at Uni. Unfortunately, the official records were useless. So he started searching names of students Sherlock's year, and came across a blog by one of them written recently. A man named Joseph VanDremal. He was a CEO of some company, vastly rich and successful, and the blog was written as his apology to the world, it said, because he was dying of incurable brain cancer. Interested, he started to go backward through the entries.

Cheating husband, talks about reasons, what drove him, etc. Bad father, ignored his kids and deserved to have them taken from him. Blah, he thought, then he noticed an entry called "So Sorry, and Unforgivable."

He settled back and pulled it up.

_So Sorry and Unforgivable – 12 June 2013_

_ I started this to clear my conscious. Too little too late, mostly. But at least by doing this I can have some sense of having admitted the horrible things I've done in my life and seek some sort of absolution. I know many who commented on my previous entries have supported me, and very few have put me down, though I don't blame those who did. This, however, I doubt will receive any support or well wishes. And it deserves none. Because what I did, what we did, was unforgivable, least of all by the person who was the victim of our actions. The others…they'll never admit it, and I cannot name them. I can't even name the victim. I will reveal my part, but I won't reveal names, and after all this time, there is little to be done by the authorities. It still doesn't change the fact that we committed an act that should send us all to hell. Twice._

_ I digress. It goes back to Uni days. I was twenty, my best mates were the same age. And as young men who are bored and have too much money, we wandered the campus looking for unsuspecting students younger than us. That's when we found him. I swear, we thought he was a girl at first. Longish dark hair that curled down his neck, and big doe eyes, I think they were blue, I'm not sure anymore. It doesn't matter. But they were innocent. So bright, and so full of wonder at everything in the world. We followed him, of course, just to see, and found him to be exceptionally bright. He was either in class or holed up in his dorm or locked up with one of the professors doing some strange experiments. One memorable one happened when he blew up half the chemistry lab. We were so sure our quarry would be expelled, but no, he simply helped fix the mess, and went on his merry way._

_ Simply began, we talked to him. He was obviously starved for attention. He was quick and abrasive and told absolutely nothing but the truth, and would tell you truths about yourself you really didn't want to admit. I had to admit, I was totally smitten. Here I thought I was straight as a rule, but not with this boy around. When the somewhat leader of our group noticed, he grinned. He dared me to ask him on a date. I was aghast, saying that that was ridiculous I was straight. He told me not to worry, just pretend he was a girl, that I had an imagination._

_ So I agreed. I guess part of me was too enamored with him to noticed what the others said as I walked toward where he was sitting, long lanky legs crossed, reading a senior physics book. I can still picture him. The image is clear in my mind as he looked up and grinned and said hi to me. I asked if he wanted to go out for ice cream, just the two of us. He looked so confused and then his eyes cleared and he asked if I meant like a date or like friends. I smiled shyly and said like a date. He blushed, and my heart raced. He nodded, and I said to meet me at the shoppe at three._

_ I headed back to class and told the others. Again, I should have listened to what they said as I floated away. I should have listened to the planning. Because my simple ice cream date was not on their mind at all. So I ended up playing my part perfectly._

_ The date was nice. We talked, he told me about an annoying older brother he had that was always on his case, and his parents were dreadfully dull and boring, but he cared for them because they put up with him. I don't think I've ever in my entire life had a better time, looking back. Sitting across a dingy ice cream shoppe table with a boy that had lit a fire in my heart like no one before or since ever could. I remember reaching over and running a hand through those soft, wild curls of dark hair and grinning. I smiled shyly and asked if he'd like to see the flat I rented with my friends. Again he blushed and nodded and I was ecstatic. I'd taken more than one to my bed, but this…this was different. He was so pristine, and I just wanted to see those eyes opened in ecstasy and wanted to be the reason for it. Call it hormones, what you will, but from the looks I was getting, I didn't doubt that he was interested. So we left, walking hand in hand, talking as we went to the three bedroom flat I shared with four other guys. I had my own room, since I paid most of the rent._

_ I guided my new love in gently, and set about snogging him senseless while he straddled my lap in my favorite chair. I couldn't get his clothes off fast enough, and he seemed to comply. I couldn't believe it! Everything was working, and I just wanted this angelic creature for my own. Soon we were naked, and he was in my lap and the world was exploding in bliss around us. Until the door slammed open to my room. I gripped the boy on my lap hard and looked up as the four of my mates were standing there while I was mid-coitus with the boy I'd dreamed of for weeks._

_ 'Jake' reached out an snatched his head roughly back and grinned at me. And thanked me for all my hard work, and he looked at me startled and looked about ready to cry, it seemed. My mouth wouldn't work as he fought off the oldest of my group, Jake, who was my friend, my mentor. He drug him off my lap, cuffing him on the back of his head as he did, and I could tell what was happening but I couldn't move, I was frozen, and I couldn't stand to even call someone, to help him, nothing, and in the end, they told me to finish what I started, and so help me, I did. I did, because in some way, I thought maybe, that angelic boy would see how sorry I was if I made it up to him, made him feel good after what they'd done to him. But he wouldn't look at me, weeping into the bed sheets as I cupped his face._

_ I don't remember what happened after that. I passed out, and I woke up and he was gone, my sheets stained with blood and I ran and threw up in the bathroom until I heaved so much that I pulled my stomach muscles and burst a blood vessel in one eye. But it wasn't the worst. No, that wasn't the worst._

_ The worst was seeing him at school. My friends, well, those I thought had been my friends, would laugh and yell, calling him a good whore and a slut, and all sorts of things. And I never did. No, I would stare, and if he turned my direction, his eyes were empty. The spark, the wonder, everything I'd fallen in love with was simply gone. He never spoke to any of us, never acknowledged what they said, and maybe that was the worst. If he'd been angry, punched me, anything…maybe I could have explained. But he didn't. And so here I am, years later, telling strangers the day I became lower than dirt and deserving of all the terrible things that happened in my life._

_ I know, dying gives perspective right? Well, I know a little about my angelic boy today. And he's still out there, but I can't help but feel responsible for what he became in some ways. Not long afterward, I remember seeing him, sitting staring up at the sky, laying out under a tree, and I dared to walk closer, and found he wasn't really present, eyes red rimmed, pupils blown wide, and where he laid, I saw the telltale track marks in his arm where his sleeve was rolled up on one side. And again, I was lurching to the loo and retching everything I'd eaten. Because I knew, I knew it was our fault. My fault. My angel. And in the end, my angel saves me. It is because of him I write this silly blog. And maybe one day he'll come across it. Maybe he won't. He doesn't have to forgive me. I don't need it because there is no forgiveness for this._

_ My angelic boy. The only boy I've ever loved, and perhaps the only person I've ever really loved in my whole life, loved from the core of my being and beyond. And I utterly destroyed him. That is my greatest sin, and for this, I will die unforgiven of it. _

John held his breath. He scrolled and found that the man had succumbed to his illness two months previously. He had clues, but no answers. It could be Sherlock, the age and description were right, but what if it wasn't? He sighed and stared at his hand. This had all started with a simple touch. That was all, just a simple touch. Could John heal with that same touch?

He had to try.


	2. Chapter 2: A Brother's Revenge

**One Small Touch**

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_A/N: Okay guys, since everyone encouraged me to continue, I am. Here's the question, though. I've rated it T (or M on AO3) because it isn't graphic. If you read me, you know I'm usually quite graphic about the sex and violence. My question is if those that are reading would like me to expound on the memories as they surface. Sherlock is still "photographic" here, so he remembers in detail everything that happened. This would initiate a change in rating, of course. I had some other plot planned as well, interference with John's attempt to heal, and surfacing of BAMF John (because I love BAMF John going all kicking ass for Sherlock) to fix things. So would you rather just be the memories and working through the healing or some other plot mixed in too? Let me know. Gods know I have enough ideas. I mean, in like four months I've written over 300k for my stories. Like three novels worth. Oi. Anyway, do let me know via review/PM/Comment/etc._

_No Sherlock in this chapter, sorry, next chapter, I wanted this to happen first. BAMF Mycroft and John here. Not sure if I'm happy and may change things, not sure yet. I might expand the first chapter depending on how things go._

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**Chapter Two**

_A Brother's Revenge_

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John wasn't sure how to proceed, and the person he could ask about it was dead. So, he would call in Mycroft. If anyone could give him the names of the people that Joseph VanDremal ran with, he certainly could. But this was going to be a weird conversation. He checked on Sherlock to find him still deeply asleep. The panic attack had drained the thinner man of every ounce of energy it seemed. Not that Sherlock really had a lot to start with. So he picked up his mobile.

"Yes, John?" came the smooth reply, as usual devoid of emotion.

"Have you found anything out, Mycroft?" he asked.

There was a long pause. "No, but you have."

Someitmes he hated the Holmes boys. "Maybe, can I send you a link to a blog I found by a man named Joseph VanDremal before he died?"

"Yes, I wasn't occupied at the moment. VanDremal…" Mycroft mused as he waited. "That sounds familiar. He was a couple years older than Sherlock at Uni I believe. I remember Sherlock mentioning him at one time. Oh, here it is. What am I looking for?"

"Go down to a post called So Sorry and Unforgivable, June 2013. And you might want to sit if you aren't. I might be wrong. Call me when you're done if you think there's anything to it," John said, clicking off to wait. He really didn't want to interrupt the man's revelations as he read the blog. No, that reaction was something for Mycroft to come to alone.

It wasn't long until the phone buzzed again. And he heard the sound in Mycroft's voice. "I could tell you the day, John," he said softly. "He called me. I'll never forget. It was the first and only time I heard him cry. He said he'd met someone and something happened and he was giving up on love entirely, that it was foolish and led to hurt. I…I thought he'd had a bad relationship, but I didn't think…" John could tell that Mycroft's carefully held control was wavering. "If I'd went to see him…maybe…I'll text you anything I find out about the others involved. I have to fix this. I have to fix Sherlock now since I didn't fix him then."

John smiled to himself. "Mycroft, he's not a thing, you don't just 'fix' him. But text me when you find out. I want to talk to these other four and figure out what's happening, don't tell them I'm with Sherlock, just…I play the part of a blogger working out a dying man's blog."

It didn't take long. Mycroft's network was wide, and finding out who had leased a house at Uni with Joseph VanDremal was rather easy. Terrance Weathers, Clint Verstain, Leslie Connors, and Jason Ackerby. And so it was that John was standing before the doorway of a very posh country club meeting Jason Ackerby and Clint Verstain to talk about their dead pal Joseph VanDremal.

"So, have you read Mr. VanDremal's blog?" John asked, pulling a netbook from his bag and loading it up. "He picked up blogging when he found out he was terminal. Seemed he felt the need to apologize to the world for things he'd done in his lifetime."

Clint shook his head. "We weren't aware of it," he said, smiling at the man beside him. Secret lovers, John's mind supplied. Dammit, he couldn't even do something on his own without Sherlock's deductions slamming into him.

He slid over the blog. The two scanned it and then they both paled as they came to the entry detailing the assault.

"Why…why would he publish that? I mean, that…" Jason stammered, running a nervous hand through his blond hair. His blue eyes were wide.

Clint wasn't much better, his own hazel eyes wide, and his long mouse brown hair coming loose from the hair tie behind his head. He was biting his lip. "I…I thought…I mean…he said he was in on it…I didn't know he really _liked_ him."

John tried to keep the color out of his face and his voice even. "I take it you are referring to the assault he indicates you participated in?"

They looked up at him. Clint was the first to catch on. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

John allowed a smile to grace his features. "Of course. Why else?"

Clint and Jason exchanged looks. "It was Terrance's idea," Clint said softly. "I remember the day he sent Joey to go ask him out."

_"What have you got planned, Terry?" Clint asked, sipping his soda._

_ "Easy, Clint. When Casanova there takes the freak back to his bedroom, we have ourselves a little fun with him," Terry answered, grinning._

_ Leslie giggled madly. "Oh, I like that idea, Terry. Like with the Addison boy?"_

_ Terry grinned wider. "Exactly like with the Addison boy. Leave him bloody and crying and he'll remember us for the rest of his pathetic life."_

_ "Wait, the Addison boy? Charlie Addison? The boy that jumped off the science building last year?" Jason asked, looking up at Terry._

_ Terry grinned. "I guarantee I was the last thing on his mind before he hit the ground."_

_ Joey came back, grinning. He really should have listened as he wandered off to class._

_ "Meet me at the flat about four, that'll give them time for their ice cream, and Joey to get him worked up and thinking he actually likes being with him. It's all the sweeter when you make 'em think you really like them."_

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So, you're telling me that he'd done it before and drove another kid to suicide? And then drove Sherlock into drugs."

The look that came over both men was priceless as John looked up. "Oh, I guess I forgot that part. My name's John Watson. And Sherlock Holmes is my best mate. And you should definitely be afraid because if I don't miss my guess, I have someone following me…" John said looking behind him at the familiar footsteps punctuated with the clink of an umbrella. "Mycroft Holmes, this is Clint and Jason."

Mycroft stood, looking down on the two men. "I see that, John. I heard everything of course," he said, gesturing to a CCTV camera set on the corner. "Installed a few microphones after the last time I lost track of my brother."

"B-brother?" Clint said, looking at the immaculately dressed man. "But you…you're with…"

"Too right, I am with the government. And you see, a few years ago, I was unable to deduce how badly my _little_ brother was suffering when he called me about a broken heart. Not until I found him nearly dead by an overdose sometime later. And I couldn't understand how my brilliant, genius even, brother could do something so self-destructive. He had so many prospects. Certainly he was ill equipped to deal with social situations, but he tried so hard. Then…he gave up until John, here came along. And to find out the reason why all this happened was because you and your group of friends decided that playing a game with him was a great idea," Mycroft said, not bothering to sit, instead preferring to tower over the men he was definitely intimidating.

Two suited men seemed to appear from nowhere. "Take them back," Mycroft said, spinning on his heel and walking away.

The two men were manhandled away, yelling about rights and such. Mycroft stopped and stared. "Rights? You have none as of the moment you decided to participate in the rape of my little brother and scar him for life. No, you will disappear if I so choose. No one will be the wiser."

"But you can't, the prime minister…" Clint stuttered. He was a solicitor after all.

Mycroft tipped a head to the side and grinned. "Yes, well, what he never knows, as they say."

John gathered his netbook and watched as the men were escorted away to their unknown fate. John felt slightly ill at the thought for a brief moment, then screwed up his courage. No, Mycroft was right. These men, what they did, they never paid. And Mycroft would make sure they did. And so would John. He headed to hail a cab, and go to the next appointment he had across town. He hadn't bothered telling Mycroft where he was going. He didn't need to, after all.

"Dr. Watson?" came the secretary's voice. "Mr. Connors can see you now."

He entered the room and found a very antsy man standing at the window. "I wondered, you know, when you would come find me."

John sat down. "Oh?"

Leslie stared out the window still. "Joey called me. Last year, when he found out he was terminal. He told me what he was going to do. I didn't stop him. I didn't want to. And when you called, I knew. I knew something had happened, and you'd come across Joey's confession, put together the pieces, and I cleared my schedule to see you, Dr. Watson."

"So you know who I am."

"Dr. John Watson. Blogger for the famous Sherlock Holmes. I can't say I'm surprised with what he does now, he was far too intelligent in school. For what it's worth…I am sorry for what we did. Like Joey said, though, there is no forgiveness, not for any of us…" he said with a sigh. "I'm ashamed to say, life went on, and I tucked away that dark period of my past. Sherlock, Charlie, Daniel, Marcia. Too many lives that we ruined. But Terry, oh Terry. So convincing, he was. My fault, for falling in with him, you know. Did everything my best mate suggested, never a second thought. Something deeply wrong with that, isn't there?" he said, sitting heavily and staring at John.

He crossed arms over his thin chest, brushing a hand through ginger hair. "I think the worst was having no remorse for what we did. Joey out of all of us felt the worst, but you know, he didn't do anything. He didn't report it, didn't say anything to anyone. And even participated. But he wasn't the same after that, so at his core, maybe it changed him. He did love the boy, and I truly thing he was heartbroken after what Terry and the rest of us did. In the end, Terry couldn't resist. So whatever words you have for me, Doctor, I deserve. I deserve worse than you can mete out to me."

"Sir! Sir! You can't go in there!" came the secretary's voice.

He looked mildly surprised. John snorted. "I take it you didn't count on Sherlock's older brother."

"H-he…he had, has, a brother?" Leslie asked as the door swung open to reveal the impeccably dressed Mycroft, umbrella slightly raised as he opened the door, two suited men behind him. The secretary moved away seeing the look on her boss's face.

"Mr. Connors," Mycroft said, looking around the office. "John, you beat me here once again, I'm continually impressed with the amount my brother is rubbing off on you."

"Yes, quite," John said. "Are you planning on making him disappear too?"

Leslie's eyes bugged. "What? I don't…"

"You see, Mr. Connors, I'm rather protective of my little brother. I should have been more protective sooner, I suppose. I choose to make up for my past mistakes, however. I'd like to chat with Mr. Connors, I believe you have one more appointment, John, don't you?" Mycroft asked, sitting down in a seat.

"Ring leaders do take the most time, Mycroft," John said, standing and leaving.

Some hours later he found himself sitting outside another posh country club. He straightened his jacket and went in and said he was there for Terrance Weathers. This, by far, would be the most public declaration. He looked at his phone.

_DI Lestrade will be meeting you. I have signed confessions from all of the other three. Mr. VanDremel's blog serves as his own confession. I will be there as well. Please wait. Ten minutes. –MH_

John got out of the cab and stood near the doorway, because there was no way he was going to get into this posh club without the DI at his side. Before long, his car pulled up and he got out with an annoyed looking Sally Donovan. He groaned internally. He'd hoped that he could have left her out of this. But it was better with this kind of high profile thing to be witnessed by a couple members of the Yard. Greg looked tired.

"So, John, care to tell me why we're here to make an arrest on someone we don't know on charges we are unaware of."

John shifted uncomfortably. "I think it best we wait for Mycroft. He's taking the lead on this one…" he said, sighing.

"Who's Mycroft?" Sally said, frowning.

Greg eyed John. "Why is Mycroft involved? Though that explains the roundabout nature of this. Is this to do with Sherlock?"

John nodded. "I think you should wait and watch the fireworks. Mycroft's flat pissed. You know how he gets about Sherlock. How many times has he kidnapped you in one of his nondescript black cars?"

Sally looked between the two men and saw the grimace. "Okay, who's this Mycroft and who is to do with the freak?"

"If by 'freak', you refer to my little brother, Sherlock, Sergeant Donovan…" a cool voice came from behind them. "Now, Greg, I have asked you here for a rather public display, and I'm terribly sorry for not informing you earlier. It took me longer to…ah…get confessions than I thought."

John shook his head. "Mycroft, you took them in less than three hours ago? The hell did you do to them?"

Mycroft twirled his umbrella thoughtfully. "I'm sure, John, you do not want to know. Mr. Connors was decidedly forthcoming once I convinced him to cooperate. We have Mr. Weathers on no less than six rape charges now, not to mention the two of his victims that committed suicide. Needless to say, this is purely for the public view. I wish to crush him, his reputation, and his entire family for his deeds."

Lestrade goggled. "Mycroft…I…wow. Remind me not to be on your bad side."

"Greg, believe me, people do not stay on my bad side long. They tend to disappear with alarming frequency," he said, leading them to the door. He waved and two black suited men went in front of him. Sally looked so very confused but Greg shook his head as if to say _I'll tell you later._

John hung back a step and shook his head. "I wonder why, Mycroft." He looked at Sally who was watching with wide eyes. John grinned. "Hold on for the ride. This should be good."

Mycroft stopped at the doorway. There was a hushed discussion, and then one of the men stood up very straight. "Of course, Mr. Holmes!"

The suited man waved the others in before him with his umbrella and glanced around, motioning his two men to other parts of the rooms. "Hate to have him run on me, I do not run, wet work is not my style," Mycroft said, mostly under his breath. "I might make an exception for this."

He led the way, John walking even with him, not the least intimidated by the man that frequently kidnapped him just to "chat" about Sherlock. Lestrade and Donovan walked behind them, the latter completely stolen of any wit. Mycroft made a beeline for a table filled with business men. Everyone stared as he approached.

"Well, can I help you lot?" asked the man at the head. He was fat, disgustingly so, tall, with prematurely balding black hair and a hooked nose. His eyes were quite rat-like. "I don't think we agreed to let the rabble in today."

"Might I introduce my friends first?" Mycroft said with a pleasant but dangerous tone to his voice. "This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from the Yard, and Sergeant Sally Donovan. And this, my friends, is Dr. John Watson."

The fat man shook his head. "And I'm Terry Weathers, you didn't say who you are?"

Mycroft held up a hand, a ring glittering in the light. "Wait, you're…holy shit. What are you doing here? Why are you people at my table?"

"In the pursuit of Her Majesty's best interest I often do things that most people never hear about, risk lives, make deals, you know the sort of things never spoken of. In return, now and then, Her Majesty deems it appropriate to indulge me in something that I desire help with. This rarely happens. I have little I need, unless it is intervention for my troublesome, stubborn and incredibly self-destructive brother. And I always had a wonder in my brain, what had turned the sweet boy who had no other desire than to sit and play with a chemistry set at the age of four and recited Shakespeare before he was six, and played violin well enough to be a professional by eight into someone hell bent on destroying himself? Went to Uni, came back so changed. I knew, somewhat. Bullied and pushed around, but then so was I. Genius is rarely appreciated by peers. He, however, lacked my certain… charisma. No one understands him like I can. So imagine my surprise when I discover him nearly dead after an overdose on a nasty mixture of cocaine, heroin and a few other things," he said thoughtfully.

Weathers frowned at him. "The fuck do I care about your idiot brother?"

Mycroft fixed him with a glare and John visibly flinched, hand shifting to under his jacket where his gun was tucked neatly in the back of his belt. "It would be best if you kept quiet. I rarely carry a gun, but Dr. Watson here, I'm afraid has his military issue tucked in the waist of his pants. And if he shoots you, I really do not care. Because it will have never happened."

"What? You can't do that, too many witnesses, blowhard. You haven't even said who you are," he scoffed.

"Oh, I've made more people than this change their minds about what they've witnessed, and made bigger men than you disappear. Normally I wouldn't concern myself with you, but after some interesting discussions with Clint Verstain, Leslie Connors, and Jason Ackerby I've decided to come here in person," he said.

He froze for a fraction. "They're a bunch of fucking liars."

"But you haven't heard what they had to say?" Mycroft said slowly, tapping his umbrella on the table. Around them, almost unnoticed, people had been leaving, or rather, they had been escorted out by nondescript men in black suits. Sally was watching with rapt attention but didn't dare say a word. So far, all she could discern is this guy was the freak's brother and they were here because of him. And now everyone was being taken away except the man they were here for and some very prominent political figures that sat at the table with him. She knew him, even. And this Mycroft wasn't the least bit intimidated by this guy. Soon, few were left but these very prominent individuals. It was obvious Mycroft wanted witnesses.

A man walked up and handed a folder to Mycroft and quickly disappeared. "Oh they are liars; let us find out what you say they are lying about. I think Charlie Addison would disagree. You and Leslie Connors raped him, left him in the middle of the locker room, and then spread rumors that he was sleeping with the entire Rugby team. He threw himself off the Science building six months later. Daniel Truman. This one you all participated in, including the now deceased Joseph VanDremel. Ended up slitting his wrists in his bathroom seven months later when the taunting from his classmates got too much after your father's solicitors discredited him after he was admitted to the A&E after the assault. And let's not forget Marcia Stalvert; that one was Mr. Connors, you and Mr. Ackerby. She ended up moving to France because of the constant bullying after you revealed your revel as consensual when it was anything but. And of course, the twins that you, Mr. Connors, Mr. Ackerby and Mr. Verstain raped after a party in your final year. The ended up relocating to America suddenly."

He closed the folder with a snap and stared at the table. "If you have evidence, arrest me, if you can. And you said six, that was only five. You're not as good as you think you are," Weathers said haughtily.

"You see, I don't honestly care about all those others. That's not what brought me here. If you can figure it out by process of elimination…unless you've forgotten how many young men and women that you've ruined?" Mycroft said blinking thoughtfully.

The man looked confused, and then his eyes went wide. "Wait, no, really? The freaky bastard had a brother, fuck if I knew that! Bloody hell…well if that isn't the fucking worst. Revenge, huh?"

"I would choose your words carefully, Mr. Weathers," Mycroft said.

To John's amazement, even with the obvious threat in front of him, he broke out laughing leading John to the conclusion the man was a little more than a small amount mentally unstable. "Of all the fucking people to finally bring me down it had to be Joey's curly headed slut. He mooned over that boy for weeks before I told him to go get 'im. Even said he was straight. Obviously not, since he was hot under the collar for a guy. First fuckin' date too, Joey worked fast. The one I figured would never breathe a word to anyone about what we did to him. He was such a little bitch too. I thought he was going to start crying when we took him from Joey, like anyone would ever actually give a shit about him for real."

Mycroft tossed a paper at him. "Joey, apparently, felt some kind of remorse in the end before cancer killed him. He was by far the luckiest of you."

Weathers took a moment and read it over. "Ha, I didn't think the brat would tell. He fuckin' quit talking afterward. It was even better than Charlie, he'd run a cry when he saw me, you know, Mr. _Holmes_. Nah, your dear brother simply dove into the drugs and ignored everyone, no matter what we said to him or how many times I tried to get a rise out of him, like he was a automaton or something, until he was strung out on drugs all the time. Ironic, since I was the one that sent the supplier his direction. Figured he had the addictive personality, so thought I'd help out a little. Especially after that shine left his eyes. Ironic that it would be the one that didn't talk that got my ass in the end, isn't it? And you, Dr. Watson? You the prissy little bitch's boyfriend now? I doubt it. But he's ruined, trust me. Completely fucking wrecked. He wouldn't even look at anyone like that afterward. But fuck is he a screamer…"

John had enough. He blinked twice and then he was straddling the chest of the obese man rapidly pummeling his face. Mycroft put a hand up and stopped Greg and Sally from intervening. They looked at each other and Sally frowned. Greg gave her a sharp shake of her head, saying to not go against whatever Mycroft said.

"Sick fucking bastard! You fucking gang raped him and pushed him into drugs and almost killed him and you sit there and laugh? And still make fun of him? He's damaged because of you, he doesn't even _feel_ anything anymore, and doesn't sleep and he fucking can't even be touched by another human being, and I wondered why and it is because of you, you fucking bastard!" John was screaming by the end and got up suddenly only to stumble backward panting, some level of his brain knowing that any more punching and he really would kill him.

Everyone had scattered, and Mycroft came forward and put a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll take it from here, John. I'll have Greg book him, put the charges on record, and I'll keep Sherlock's name out of it. The fallout is going to be massive once the story breaks, all five of them are prominent members of 'polite' society. Once the names hit the paper, I'm counting on you to deal with Sherlock. I can't let him fall back into old habits, and I will move him somewhere safe and secure if you cannot handle him, John."

"You know he'll fight you on that, Mycroft."

"I won't give him a choice, and he'll hate me, just like the last time. But I will protect him now even if I couldn't do it before. All five will have their names ruined, and I suppose their fate is yet to be determined. I wouldn't expect trials, however, John. But I will keep you informed, one thing they will learn is that no one hurts my little brother like this and gets away with it forever," he said as two black suited men lifted the bleeding man to his feet.

John assessed the injuries. Split lip, busted nose, possible broken jaw, both eyes black, large bruise on right cheekbone, and a purple blotch on the left side of the jaw. He'd live. But John was satisfied. He turned to the man and glared.

"I have one question, Weathers, why?" John said softly.

Weathers grinned through the bloody mess of his face. "Because I could. Did I need any other reason?"


	3. Chapter 3: The Dam Bursts

**One Small Touch**

* * *

_A/N: Okay, rating up to M/E!_

_If you aren't interested in the graphic scene, skip the section marked Memory._

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_The Dam Bursts_

* * *

John drug himself back to the flat exhausted. He expected long explanations and was debating whether the truth or a convenient lie would be good. Sherlock would surely know he'd been fighting, his knuckles were bruised and bloody, and he didn't smell like the surgery, so he'd know he hadn't been to work. It was well past five in the evening and he came laden with Thai food. He was about to reach the door when his phone buzzed. He frowned and saw it was from Mycroft.

_News broke early. Evening news obtained exclusive. Don't leave him. Working on damage control, may be too late to keep Sherlock out of it.-MH_

_ Understood. –JW_

He had to hope Sherlock wasn't watching telly. But there was no guarantee. Gratefully, he was met by the tones of a violin when he opened the door. He exhaled and went up the stairs and laid out dinner. Sherlock was quiet again, still so strange. Finally he put the violin down and came to the table.

"Thai?" he asked.

"Yup, knackered after my day," he said, dishing food out for the detective and hoping he'd eat what he gave him.

"Hm," was the only response, and John had to double check. Those eyes were not roaming him in keen observation. Had he seen the news after all? Nothing else seemed amiss and the violin was playing moderately happy music when he entered.

Sherlock picked at his food, eating maybe a third of it, and then simply wandered to his room and shut the door softly. John stared and sighed deeply. The next morning would be entirely different, he knew. Sherlock always read the papers.

John managed to get the paper first and exhaled noiseily. Mrs. Hudson frowned and looked at the paper, not really knowing what John had an issue with.

_Search for the Sixth Victim_

_ Authorities have confirmed today that they have taken four prominent men of London into custody in regards to a decade old case that they didn't know existed until yesterday. These men, in addition with one who has passed due to terminal cancer, formed the group that was dubbed the "Cambridge Quintet" last night on local news stations. _

_ Terrance Weathers, prominent politician and advocate for GMO availability, was named as the leader of the group of five young men who were at their time twenty years of age. Also arrested were Clint Verstain, Leslie Connors, and Jason Ackerby. Verstain is a well known CEO of Trester Industries. Connors is a corporate attorney for many corporations. Ackerby is the chairman of the Business Partnership for Revitalization. The fifth member, Joseph VanDremel, passed two months ago due to terminal pancreatic cancer. He was the CEO of his family's corporation at the time of his death. _

_ These five men were brought to light for their crimes through an unlikely source, a blog post made by VanDremel in his final days as remorse for one of his crimes set in. The post (listed below) can be read still. The post refers to the brutal sexual assault of a younger male student at Cambridge during their time there. The student is not named, and neither are the other aggressors, however, it did not take authorities long to put together who they were. This particular victim is the one that broke the case, yet he is the only one that we are left to wonder the identity of._

_ The first to be arrested, Verstain and Ackerby, were more than forthcoming with information about their days as members of the group. A total of six victims were revealed over their time at Cambridge with various members participating at given attacks. Connors corroborated the story the others gave, and when Weathers was arrested at his own country club yesterday afternoon, he confirmed for authorities his part in the crimes. Of the group, Weathers shows no remorse for his deeds, and instead wears them as some sort of badge of honor._

_ Charles Addison, III was the first victim, and six months after committed suicide by leaping to his death on the Cambridge campus. The second victim, Daniel Truman also committed suicide by cutting his wrists seven months after the assault. Marcia Stalvert fled the country with her family after being assaulted by the group. A pair of twins, Jason and Julie Vesters, were assaulted at a party during their final year. Within the year, their family moved to the United States. The sixth, and final, victim remains at present unnamed, but we were diligently working to uncover and interview the individual who blew this entire case open._

_ From what we could uncover, the suicides and relocations were the result of the group continuing the verbal abuse of the victims and spreading rumors indicating that the events were consensual and desired by the victims. Daniel Truman had filed charges, only to drop them after intense battles with solicitors that showed Daniel as a willing participant. Of the charges, one thing stands out stark. One victim was a minor at the time of the assault, according to Weathers, he was fifteen at his first year in Cambridge._

_ Thus far, the charges as they stand are as listed:_

_ Terrance Weathers: Aggravated Sexual Assault, five counts. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor, one count. All victims were assaulted by Weathers. There is mention of drug use, however, the case is too old to consider those charges._

_ Clint Verstain: Aggrevated Sexual Assault, three counts, Daniel Truman, Jason Vesters, Julie Vesters. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor, one count._

_Leslie Connors: Aggravated Sexual Assault, four counts, Daniel Truman, Marcia Stalvert, Jason Vesters, Julie Vesters. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor, one count._

_Jason Ackerby: Aggravated Sexual Assault, four counts, Daniel Truman, Marcia Stalvert, Jason Vesters, Julie Vesters. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor, one count._

_The now deceased Joseph VanDremal is accused of participating in the assault of Daniel Truman as well as the sixth victim. _

_Verstain, Connors, and Ackerby have already pleaded guilty to all charges, and have waived a trial. Their sentences will be determined by a judge in the next week, with consideration taken for full confession and testimony against Weathers. _

_However, Terrance Weathers is refusing to enter a plea at all until he is given a trial. The evidence is damning, and with the testimony of the rest of the Cambridge Quintet, there is little doubt of conviction. The lynch pin to his sentencing, however, may come in the form of testimony of the victims, which is why a hunt for the final victim that brought the case to light has been initiated. Without corroboration of the confession of Joseph VanDremal, he may be allowed a lighter sentence after the trial proceeds. Without the testimony of a victim, there is no physical evidence for any crimes, as it has been more than ten years since they took place. The testimony of the other members of the group will ensure a conviction, however, considering the money available to Weathers, it is a possibility that he will never see the inside of a cell._

John's mouth had run dry before the middle of the article. Sherlock had been a minor? Of course he had, John thought. He wasn't even sixteen when he started at Cambridge. And this had happened in his first year, according to Mycroft. He'd been fifteen. John's stomach dropped, the whole situation becoming many times worse in his mind.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice. "Do you have the paper?"

"Um, yeah, Sherlock, just a minute," he called up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson fixed him with a look. "What is it dear?"

John pointed to the paper she had in her hand, identical to his own. "The front page, the sixth victim, was Sherlock. He doesn't remember, he's filed it away."

He turned and headed up the stairs to find his flatmate sprawled on the couch as usual. He tipped his head up when John came in. "Paper?"

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, before you read this…"

He didn't finish before Sherlock had snatched the paper from his hands and opened it. For a long moment his expression was unreadable, a blank mask, the only motion, his eyes scanning across the page, lingering on the picture of the five men together at the top. It was from their days at Cambridge, leaning back against a wall, taken from a memory book. Further down, their current pictures were each shown separately. If John wasn't so used to Sherlock, he would have missed the slight shake of his hands, and the more rapid than normal blinking of his eyes. But he knew Sherlock very well. And he recognized the coming storm. All the work Sherlock had done to keep this information behind a dam was about to be undone. The floodgates had been opened, letting a flashback and tiny feelings of remembrance. Now, this would break the carefully crafted dam completely. And John had to hold on tightly, or his dearest friend would end up drowning.

Sherlock slowly sat down, pulling his laptop to him, mask still in place and John swallowed, realizing that he was going to VanDremal's blog. Anger burned in John's gut at the thought. The pompous arse, even at the end, had only felt sorry for himself, and how what he'd done had ruined his life, and his soul. Not what he'd done to Sherlock. He saw Sherlock's eyes scan the page quickly. The laptop slammed shut and he sat there for a long moment. He looked over to John.

"Mycroft?" he asked quietly, holding the paper.

"He couldn't make them quite disappear, so he opted for ruining them. But as you saw, Weathers has decided to play against him," John said, slowly moving forward.

Sherlock nodded slowly, and swallowed several times almost compulsively.

"Sherlock?" John asked, finally. "I know you said you didn't remember. It's coming back, isn't it?"

He nodded slowly. "I tried so hard to get rid of it…but…"

John sat down beside him, pulling him into him and holding his head to the hollow of his shoulder. "Tell me, and I'll listen, and then if you have to tell someone else, it will be easier."

John reached in a pocket then and activated a microrecorder in his pocket. "Sherlock? Mycroft gave me a recorder. I don't know if it will work, but maybe you won't have to repeat this." He nodded into his chest and took a breath.

-Memory-

He'd started Cambridge at fifteen. He was looking forward to leaving behind the petty childhood differences of boarding schools and get into a world of older students that were far more intelligent than the dullards at the school's he'd been to. At first, he liked it. The older students thought he was "cute" and would talk to him because he was two to three years younger than most the students at the school. Of course, Sherlock was brutally honest, and wouldn't have known tact if it was staring him in the face. He ended up scaring away most his potential friends because of his acerbic personality and intelligence. The truth was that most were jealous and more than a little intimidated by the young man.

So when the group of boys from last year had asked him to hang out with them, he had been excited. Especially since the shy one named Joey seemed to steal passing glances at him when he could. It was quite obvious to Sherlock that the boy was interested in a more than friendship way. He refrained, for once, of stating his observations, instead practicing what Mycroft called Socially Acceptable Levels. He was trying very hard, so when they went on a date at the ice cream shoppe, he did his best to act like normal people did on a date. It was his first real social experiment in this type of thing. Of course, he had researched, and he knew that being invited back to someone's place was usually a precursor to sexual relations. But he felt he was ready to experiment with those things, provided Joey was there. Joey had been kind, and hadn't called him names at all. He liked that about him.

To say the kissing was amazing was an understatement. The older boy's mouth devoured him, and he let him, melting into the sensations that were completely new, and he hadn't even really noticed when they were both naked and he was sitting, straddling his lap, still snogging furiously. He couldn't imagine what he was feeling, and he leaned back, his arousal brushing against Joey's own underneath him.

"Sherl, you sure? I know you haven't done this before," Joey asked, breathless. "I'm okay with just snogging and a bit o'frotting if you don't want to go all the way."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "As long as it's you, I want to do this."

Joey grinned and reached into the seat of the chair and pulled a clear bottle out and coated his fingers with a gel that smelled like spearmint. He pulled Sherlock in, kissing him soundly as one hand snaked under him, pressing slicked fingers into him gently. He gasped into his mouth but moaned as he added the second, scissoring the boy writhing on his lap. Before long, he pulled away, and slicked himself. Sherlock stared down and let Joey guide him over him and then slowly sunk down. It burned and stretched a bit at first, but he found himself getting used to it as he sunk to his lap, pausing, panting, and then being kissed completely while Joey grabbed his flagging erection to bring it back to life.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, this is…I've never felt anything like this…so much better than any girl I've been with," he breathed into Sherlock's ear. "You're beautiful, like an angel, stay forever?"

Sherlock leaned back suddenly gasping as he moved and something sent sparks through his brain. "Oh, gods, yes, forever, Joey," he moaned and then there was a loud bang that startled both of them. Sherlock looked behind and the other four of the group were standing there in the open doorway.

Joey gasped, gripping Sherlock's hips harder now. "The hell? Get the hell out!" he yelled.

Weathers gave a leering grin. "Why would we do that, Joes? That would ruin our plan, remember? You did a great job, getting him here, and all lubed up already…wonderful. You work faster than I expected, Joes."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked at Joey, his heart sinking. "What?" he whispered. Joey shook his head. "No, Sherl, I didn't…"

Terry grabbed him by the hair then, yanking him roughly off Joey's lap and pulling him to the floor. He started to struggle, fighting him off, until he leg go and cuffed him in the back of the head hard enough to send him sprawling. Darkness danced at the edges of his vision as his hair was grabbed painfully again and yanked him to stand again, tossing him into Joey's bed. The world was still spinning when he felt someone's hands on his hips again, his addled mind couldn't connect the pieces, until he looked to the side to see Joey sitting in the chair, eyes wide and mouth agape.

"No, no, let me go, please…" he cried as without warning he was roughly taken by Weathers, who was significantly larger than Joey had been. He cried out, his hands crossed in front of him, and dropped his head into his arms as he was rammed into ruthlessly, Weathers continuing with a monologue of disgusting words behind him, but he couldn't hear them. Something stung and pulled inside, and he knew he must have torn somewhere because he felt something leaking down his legs then.

The only indication he had that anything changed was the burning sting as Terry finishes and another took his place, leaving him breathless again, and unable to move. Again, there was the burning sting, and he heard a groan from Jason, he thought. Then there was murmured discussion and he was snatched upward, sitting on someone's lap, he thought it was Leslie. He lifted him, and guided himself inside, groaning about how he was tight and pulled him up until he was blinking up at Jason and Clint who were grinning at him. Yes, he was sitting on Leslie. His eyes were fuzzy and his brain was obviously slow. Concussed, no doubt, either from the blow Terry landed or his skull bouncing off the hard floor. He yelped as Leslie pulled his legs apart roughly, and Clint was crawling up to him.

"Shh, now, let's just fill you all up, there little Sherly," Clint whispered and Sherlock realized what he was going to do. He started to struggle but Jason moved forward and grabbed his arms and pulled them painfully aside.

If he'd thought it was painful before, he couldn't imagine anything more painful than this. Clint slammed forward into him, stretching everything much further than it was designed to stretch, he was quite certain. His eyes rolled up and he slumped backward onto Leslie's chest, breaths heaving, tears flowing easily down his face. He lost track of what happened then. The world dissolved into pain and hazy words around him. Eventually he felt the softness against his back again and he was looking up into Joey's eyes, and he was whispering something to him, about how sorry he was, but he wanted to make it better…

But nothing would make this better. He turned his head away and wept quietly until he was done. The door opened and closed, and Joey seemed to have fallen asleep on top of him. He scrambled away, pushing him and trying not to wake him. He held onto his stomach barely, and grabbed his clothes, not bothering to put on his shoes, and ran from the house. He hurt everywhere, and he knew he needed some kind of help but how. He decided on an A&E, because he was still bleeding, and needed stitches, and no matter what, he couldn't fix that himself. He would use a fake name and slip away once they'd done everything he couldn't do himself.

What he didn't expect was his reactions. He went in, giving the name Jared White, saying he was eighteen. It didn't work; however, they knew he was underage. When the nurse went to guide him, he flinched away violently into the wall. He refused to give any more personal details, and they could see that he needed help, so he was led to a room. He answered questions about the assault, as detached and clinically as he could. But then the doctor went to do the exam and he panicked. It took a powerful sedative to even get him to the point they could get him back to the exam table. Finally, the exam was done, and he was stitched and given instructions and prescriptions. The doctor said to wait there, that there was someone that needed to talk to him from the police. As soon as she was gone, he got to his feet and was gone.

-End Memory-

John reached over and clicked off the recorder.

"Since then…I didn't know why…but touching anyone without gloves was enough to make me want to retch. And unexpected touches from others, got violent results. As Anderson and Lestrade have both found the hard way. At least Lestrade forgave me."

Then he blinked at John, eyes widened as if he realized what had just happened. "John?" he choked suddenly. "I think…I think I might…need you for a while…"

John smiled, tugging him in tighter, feeling the telltale wetness on his shirt. "That's fine, Sherlock. I'm here."

It took almost three hours before John finally sat with a cried, screamed, and yelled out Sherlock in his lap. His fists here curled under his chin, and his face was buried in John's stomach. If he hadn't been present for the outpouring of emotion, he wouldn't have believed Sherlock Holmes capable of something so intense. But here he was, tear and snot soaked shirt to prove it. He ran a hand over his dark curls fondly. No wonder the bloke was married to his work. He couldn't trust anyone else not to rip his heart out again.


	4. Chapter 4: Under the Watershed

**One Small Touch**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_Under the Watershed_

* * *

Mycroft was unhappy. John had let him know what happened after Sherlock got the news this morning, and the subsequent breakdown that followed. All he could do was thank all the holy things he definitely did _not_ believe in that John Watson was there with him for it. Danger Night would be an understatement after this. In this situation, Mycroft found himself not only understanding his brother, but wondering if he would have chosen the same routes of escape if he had been in the situation. Mycroft's own uni days hadn't been spectacular. He had been younger than most as well, but Mycroft quickly acclimated to the world and manipulated those around him with ease that his brother never had. Where Mycroft could see the ebb and flow of society around him, Sherlock had a vast blind spot. He'd always struggled with emotions, even as a child, but then, so had Mycroft. He simply hid it much better than his little brother.

"Sir, we have an issue," came Anthea's voice from the doorway. As usual, she was pecking away at her phone and not looking at him. "You may want to turn on the telly. News."

Mycroft groaned inwardly. There was only one thing he was working on today, and that was the prosecution of the slimy, crooked bastard Terry Weathers. He was so far locked up in lawyers and cameras that he couldn't even begin to get to him. Even his less than reputable means were blocked. He was locked in a private cell, with his own private guard in addition to the police that were there. At this point, he'd settle for the man dying an incredibly painful death. That was going to have to wait though, it seemed. He sighed deeply and clicked on the telly.

"…revelation of the mysterious sixth individual. Of course, he question becomes, can Terrance Weathers be trusted? Could he be naming someone simply to stir the issues of London today? The question hangs in the air. We were unable to take cameras into the holding area where Mr. Weathers is being held, and recording devices were not permitted either. However, Anita Catamar was able to spend ten minutes with the incarcerated politician and obtain the information that has everyone on edge. The identity of the sixth victim in the case. When we return, we'll talk to Anita about her short interview with Mr. Weathers."

The telly went to commercial and Mycroft felt his face blooming with heat. He glared at Anthea. "How? He was to have no visitors."

She shook her head. "Unclear, sir, but we are getting to the information now. However, it is looking more and more like it wouldn't matter."

"What?" he said, turning sharply around.

"It is online already. It seems more than one blog and minor news site put the pieces together, looking through Cambridge records for the few students that would have been fifteen in the years that Terrance Weathers attended. It seems your brother was the only underage student during his time there…" she said, looking up.

Mycroft groaned. That had been his fault entirely, forgetting that there had been no other "exceptional" students like himself and his brother during Sherlock's years. He settled his head into his hands as the telly blared into life again.

"And we're back with Anita. Anita?"

"Thank you, Mala. I must say that I have never left an interview with an incarcerated subject as shaken as I did this one. In some ways, I am glad I was unable to take recording devices, because Mr. Weathers is obviously intent on complete humiliation and degradation of all his victims, but most especially the final victim who he blames for his capture. Mr. Weathers is a man of wealth and influence, and he seems intent on using that influence to make those who are trying to charge him for his crimes work."

"So, he admits freely to his crimes, Anita? There is no doubt the charges are legitament?"

"No doubt, whatsoever, Mala. He boldly and proudly admits to the rapes of all six individuals, and feels that the fact two committed suicide, three fled the country, and one turned to drugs to be some sort of monument to what he's done. He claims the moment he set eyes on them, their lives were his to control and manipulate as he saw fit. He claimed to be able to provide me with graphic details should he have time to recount his encounters with each victim."

"And the sixth victim, the underage one?"

"As I said, he has a special vendetta against him, even though from what I gathered, the victim himself has not come forward. Joseph VanDremal's blog was indeed what led to the investigation, however, the victim described there is the sixth victim. Mr. Weathers therefore places blame on him instead of himself. He truly has no remorse for attempting to destroy six lives, and freely admits that he had expected all six to kill themselves, saying that the ultimate control over someone is the control to make them end their own life. It seems a strange sort of murder by proxy."

"What drew his attention to the sixth victim, Anita? What drew him to target a so much younger boy?"

"That is perhaps a result of who the individual is. To go to Cambridge at fifteen is remarkable, only a few students have done so, all with genius level intellect. He is no different, and has done amazing and incredible things since then despite his past. Perhaps it is the successful nature of this victim that Mr. Weathers dislikes the most. Despite his attempts to destroy him, he persevered. Unlike the other victims, he turned to drug use, which Mr. Weathers informed me he initiated as well. My sources today say that he is clear of that part of his life, and has moved past that. However, the question that remains is how will this situation affect him in his daily life? As a reporter, I want to reveal the facts, but as a person, the one thing I do not want to reveal is this person's identity. However, as I discovered last night once I finished with Mr. Weathers, it did not matter. I sat at home wrestling with a moral dilemma about whether to hold the information or release it, only to have it brought to my attention, online speculation had already been picked up by other news agencies and it was quickly becoming a well-known secret."

"Online speculation, Anita?"

"Yes, Mala. It seems that this victim was the only student in his age at Cambridge during Mr. Weathers time there. Searching public records took only a little time to reveal his identity."

Mala was getting quite excited it seemed. Curiosity was outweighing morality, it seemed. "Well, then, who is this sixth victim?"

"Surprisingly, none other than London's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft clicked off the telly with a deep sigh. He picked up his phone.

_John. Sherlock's identity as the sixth victim was revealed this morning on the national news. I suggest you both stay in, and if you need to leave the flat, I'll send a car.-MH_

A few minutes later there was a terse, _Understood._ In response. Mycroft couldn't blame John. He said he was going to keep Sherlock out of it, and he instead was being drug right into the middle of it.

-Baker Street-

John stared at the phone and then went to the newsfeed. He groaned as the headlines changed to reflect what had been said on national news. Already, he could see his email count escalating dramatically from the website's server. He opened a few and then wanted to throw his phone. It was an eclectic mixture of pity, sympathy and ire/blame. He sighed deeply and let his head fall back onto the seat. They'd set about to tear down the culprits, and instead, the main culprit had set out to tear down Sherlock in return.

He searched for and found a transcript of the news piece that had been on and was deeply afraid for his friend. Terry Weathers was proud of what he'd done, and completely expected his victims to kill themselves. His phone buzzed in his hand.

_I saw the news. How's he doing?-Greg_

_Ask me in about an hour, he doesn't know yet.-JW_

John put his phone down and went to knock on Sherlock's door. After the emotional breakdown the morning before, he'd passed out on John for a couple hours then played his violin for several hours. John managed to put tea into him, but nothing else. He'd retreated to his room and solitude early in the evening, and had remained there since. His phone and laptop were both sitting on the dining table, so he knew that he had no access to the information that broke. He hesitated until he heard Sherlock's voice.

"John, if you insist on standing there all day, stop thinking so loudly."

John smiled despite the situation. He opened the door to see his flatmate sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the other laying over his head. He uncovered his eyes tentatively, and he realized that they were still puffy and red. He wished if he'd been upset again that he'd come to him. He hated to think of Sherlock crying himself to sleep alone. He honestly didn't want to see Sherlock alone ever again. He swallowed the thought.

"You're staring, John. I suppose there is more undesirable news for my situation."

"Um, yeah. Mycroft couldn't control every angle, and the information got out. Your…your name was released today. Though it looks like some conspiracy theorists had it figured last night after hacking into Cambridge's files. I guess you were the only fifteen year old during Weathers years."

Sherlock sighed deeply. "I was wondering how long it would take them to figure that out. Honestly surprised it took that long."

John moved forward and sat down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder, still amazed that he could actually touch him when no one else could. "Hey, you know it doesn't matter?"

"I know, John, but it is the _looks_ and the _pity_ that I am not looking forward to seeing. I am not going to fall apart. Again. I have you now. I don't need drugs and I most certainly am not inclined to end my own life over a decade's old event," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes betrayed his lack of real rest with the dark circles under them.

"You seem to have recovered from the memories returning," John said, brushing his hair from his forehead gently.

"They were never gone, John, simply filed away. I was…taken off guard. That was something I had sealed tightly, and like you noticed, it was something far too big to delete. Something like that is…life altering. And now I have to move forward again," he sat as he spoke. "I'm going to shower and dress, and then we'll see what the day brings."

John watched him and sighed deeply. The next weeks would be hard, no doubt. He sighed and returned to the front and saw another text had come in from Greg, a new crime scene. As much as he wanted to keep him in, John knew the best thing for Sherlock was his Work. So he texted him back, saying they'd be there in half an hour. He then texted Mycroft letting him know where they were going and why. He got no response as he expected. Mycroft had to understand that staying in the flat would drive Sherlock completely insane.

"Sherlock! Case!" he called. He heard the distinct sound of the shower turning off as the detective hurried through his dressing. Together they headed out, Sherlock practically running down the steps. Of course, he was in a hurry. He was going to be nuts before long if he didn't get out.

Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a nice house. It was taped off and Sally Donovan stood out from, deflecting interested neighbors. For once, Sherlock hesitated, and John saw why. As soon as he stepped out of the cab, the few people on the scene turned and stared. John reached out and squeezed his hand, getting him to look at him. He smiled and nodded. With that he strode with his usual confidence, or at least anyone who didn't know him would assume it was confidence, John saw the hesitance in each step and the way he faltered. Sherlock's physical tells were so much more subtle than anyone else he knew but they were there, if you observed.

He ducked under the tape and he tuned out the barrage of questions that suddenly started when he got nearer that had nothing to do with the current crime scene. He saw Sherlock's body language close off immediately, and he slipped through the tape and into the house with a sigh.

"If this happens everywhere I go, I'm never leaving the flat," he said once inside.

"We can't have that," Greg said, looking over toward them. "You'll drive John insane and shoot holes in the wall. Come on, this is your favorite, locked room murder."

Despite his situation, Sherlock's eyes lit up. He followed Greg into a bedroom just off the main entry, and John felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see Anderson standing behind him with a strange look on his face.

"Yes?" John asked, arching his brows.

"So it's true, yeah? Sally told me about you and that brother of Sherlock's going to that Weathers' place. But it's true?" he asked.

John sighed. "Yes, Anderson, very true. And it's the reason you got slugged when you met him, you do know he punched Greg for the same reason? But yes, and I'm sure more painful details will be coming out if this Weathers guy has anything to say about it. He wants to see his victims destroyed, and Sherlock's the only one not dead or in a foreign country."

Anderson looked thoughtful for a moment. "I…I mean…that's a lot to deal with."

"Especially since he's had the memory locked away since it happened. So please, don't treat him differently right now. It's the worst part for him," John said, turning to go into the room where he was examining the carpet below the window with his magnifier.

Greg stood to the side, arms crossed, watching him work. He looked up as John entered and wondered for a millionth time why the two weren't involved. It was obvious they were obsessed with each other, but then, Greg supposed that knowing what had happened in Sherlock's past explained his hesitancy to get involved with others. It explained the touching issues as well as the closed off nature of Sherlock's emotions. He couldn't imagine what he had to be going through, everyone in the world knowing his darkest secret. He didn't mention it, giving Sherlock some much needed normalcy in what had to be a confusing mess.

About twenty minutes later, he was standing outside the house, having solved the case (it was the maid), and wanting to get back home and work on some experiments with some volatile chemicals or animal parts. Or maybe he'd go to the morgue and see what bodies where there he could look into… He turned to say something as John came out the door but saw John's eyes widen and push him hard. The air resounded with a loud cracking sound and Sherlock swore he felt something explode in his upper arm, followed by another crack and another explosion of pain ripped through his thigh. There was a strange metallic tang to the air, and he looked to see a man in a black leather motocycle outfit with a full helmet on mounting a motorbike and riding off, shots being fired after him.

It took forever for the ground to meet him. When it did, time, which had slowed to a near crawl, caught up to him and he was blinking up at John, who was pressing hard into a spot in his leg that was shooting blinding pain throughout him. He heard Greg's voice and felt the world slipping around him. He heard John telling Greg and someone else not to touch him…that he couldn't deal with a panic attack right now. He wanted to tell John thanks for that. But the words were caught in his throat.

John was panicking. Severely. As soon as he saw the man he knew, he wasn't sure how, but he did. And the man shot, thankfully he had pushed Sherlock enough that the bullet aimed for his chest buried in his upper arm, then if the bastard didn't shoot for the femoral artery instead. Unfortunately for John, that shot hit the mark, and he was desperately trying to keep him from bleeding out. What little color was in Sherlock's face was draining away. The paramedics were there.

"I need a sedative, now!" he screamed before they even got out of the van.

"What for? We can't sedate someone whose been shot like that!" the first yelled.

"Unless you want a full on panic attack when you load him, he needs a sedative, now, severe hapnophobia, even in this state it will put him in distress and cause the bleeding to worsen, so get a goddamned sedative now!" he announced, fingers precariously placed around the edges of the artery. He'd tied his belt around Sherlock's thigh as a tourniquet to stem the flow, then went in after the bullet to pinch the artery closed by hand to make sure. The wound in his shoulder was bleeding but not as bad.

The medics argued no more, simply handing him a syringe. "Sherlock!" he yelled at his friend, who turned hazy eyes on him. "Sherlock, listen, you're going to take a nap, but I'll be there when you wake up."

He sighed. "John, you fix it?" he slurred thickly. "Okay, nap."

John pulled the lid off with his teeth and used his free hand to inject the sedative into the muscle. A few moments later, Sherlock's lids fluttered and his body relaxed. "Okay, come on, I've got the artery pinched, femoral's been severed. We have to go now, but I'm not letting go, so work around me," John announced.

It took some doing but finally they were in the truck, and John's fingers had been replaced with a clamp, and he took a moment to take a shaky breath. He was covered in blood. Before long, they were wheeling him away with strict instructions from John not to let him wake if they were still working on him. He stood dumbly in the waiting room where he'd been shoved. He turned to see Greg, Sally, and Anderson standing behind him. He looked down at himself and grimaced.

"If it isn't too much to ask, Greg, can you go to Baker Street and ask Mrs. Hudson to pull a set of clothes for me?" he asked.

"Yeah, John, but first, how is he?"

John shook his head. "The leg wound is the one I'm worried about, tore through the femoral artery. High risk of infection, I had my hands in the wound pinching the artery by hand until they could clamp it, no telling how much contamination got into it. The arm isn't as bad, but still. If I hadn't pushed him, he'd be dead. That shot would have hit him right in the heart. Did they catch the guy?"

"We did," came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Mycroft, impeccable as ever, leaning on his umbrella. "He was hired anonymously, but we are sure that it was Weathers that put a hit on Sherlock."

John nodded, and watched as Greg left the room. Mycroft sighed, patting him on the back. "John, I can't thank you enough. You've saved my dear brother more times than you know."

Sally stared at Mycroft for a long while before speaking. "So you're really his brother? You don't act like him at all…" she said finally.

Mycroft arched a brow and scanned him and Anderson. "Hrm. You've been sleeping together for several months now, and your wife is none the wiser. But I'd suggest going easy on the perfumes when you rendezvous, because he stinks of your perfume, dear. And if you had any more disdain of my brother it would be palpable in the air. A shame, really. He does enjoy your company even if you don't see how much," he said, getting hard looks from both Anderson and Donovan.

"Yes, you see, my dear brother and I are very much the same, here," he said, tapping his head. "The difference is that I didn't suffer a life altering event at fifteen that completely ruined my ability to understand emotions and connections to others. Sherlock was never very good at societal norms to begin with. No wonder he walked into the convenient trap of people pretending to care about him, starved as he was for that kind of attention. A shame I didn't notice, and never will I forgive myself."

Mycroft sighed and sunk down into a seat. "All I really want is the little boy that played Beethoven's fifth for me when I was sad after a fight with Father. He was seven at the time, and he knew that I was upset, and that it was my favorite piece. He learned it just for me, and I don't think he's ever played it since…then." If anyone noticed the dampness on Mycroft Holmes's face, no one mentioned it.


	5. Chapter 5: The Key Found Inside

**One Small Touch**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_The Key Found Inside_

* * *

Sherlock hated hospitals. More than anything else, they reminded him of the weakness and frailty of the human body that he had to endure. He often referred to it as nothing more than a transport for his mental faculties, and that was the reason he ate little and slept less. He could endure pain to a greater degree than most people. And he could shut down the needs of his body if he wanted to do so. And most of the time, he did just that. Desires were secondary when they were desires of the body. He had denied them all for more than a decade. Desires for foods, drinks, sleep, movement, sex, all of those things had nothing to do with his mental capacity. Some delighted in the excess of sweets, alcohols, sloth, exercise, and carnal activities, but when the shuttering need for any of those things surfaced, he simply closed down that and supplanted it with an activity to stimulate his mind instead.

That was why the drugs became so attractive. They did sate a physical need, of a sort, but mostly they granted something to mental capabilities. The stimulants allowed his mind to expand and clarify, the depressants allowed him to slow his mind down when it became too rapid. And most of all, the drugs made it easier to slip away from the memories. He didn't even remember when touch began to trigger anxiety. Perhaps it was immediately, perhaps months after the incident. It was only a short while until Terry and the others were gone, but before they left, they had left an indecent brand on Sherlock's life and peers. Before, he was that weird kid that liked to show off. Now, his world included whispered conversations about his sexual proclivities. He set those things aside and never deemed to respond to any of them. To do so would acknowledge that something had happened. And he couldn't do that, because if he did, he had to remember. And more than anything he did _not_ want to remember. That was the first purpose of the drugs. And they worked so well, he felt like he was drowning in them, and he was perfectly happy to do so.

Still, by the end, he graduated with a dual degree in chemistry and physics, a perfect grade point average and top of the class. The whispered conversations continued, but had died to speculation, and rumors. He spent most his time avoiding others, and when he was forced to interact would insult and berate people to keep them away. And it worked, most the time. But it would be inevitable, he'd make someone angry enough to reach out and try to grab him or push him, and then he'd lash out violently, his senses on fire, anxiety shooting through the roof and wanting nothing more but to get away from that person. It was perfectly illogical. He researched the reactions, discussed them with professors, and determined it was a phobia. And the treatment was systematic desensitization, but there was no guarantee that it would work if the root of the problem wasn't dealt with, that is, whatever triggered such an extreme phobia.

Then there was the overdose. He'd been out of uni no more than two weeks, in a new small flat that Mycroft found for him, working on his experiments and doing nothing of real import. It had been a complete accident. He hadn't overdosed on purpose. He normally mixed his own solution of cocaine and heroine. A cocktail that he preferred that put his mind exactly where he wanted it. But his supplier claimed that he had some premixed with the saline for injection. He was dubious about it, he didn't like his stuff cut with anything else, but he'd gone to the same man for almost three years now, and he'd never steered him wrong. The solution he used was 7%. The one he got was a 10% solution, and what he didn't know is that it was laced with ketamine. When he added the liquid heroine, and shot the solution, the effect was immediate. He knew something was wrong and grabbed his phone, managing to call Mycroft before he lost consciousness.

He woke to the bloody hospital. It had been three weeks, and they'd kept him sedated through the detoxing. His body still craved a bit, full detox took six to eight weeks, but the worst part would be over. He blinked and saw Mycroft sitting beside the bed, reading the newspaper. Sherlock sighed and Mycroft glared at him.

"I didn't try to kill myself. It was an accident," he said immediately, voice hoarse and rough from disuse.

"I should hope it was an accident. One that will not be repeated."

He spent a long time in a rehabilitation clinic after that. It was exceedingly tedious, dull and boring, and by the end, he'd probably alienated three quarters of the staff, and slugged the other quarter at some point in response. He'd had no less than eight panic attacks over the phobia before he left the place. It seemed the therapists and nurses didn't understand that he didn't want to be touched. They all seemed to think there was some special exception for them personally, that somehow they were _the one_ that could get through to the toughest patient in the place. They were all incredibly wrong.

It wasn't long after Mycroft picked him up and deposited him in a new flat that he found himself bored to tears. He knew Mycroft was watching him, and the desire for drugs was strong. He knew it wasn't possible. He still missed the feeling, though. The clarity that didn't come from anywhere else. Finally, he got annoyed at a murder case that was in the paper. The answer was so glaringly obvious even from the junky pictures in the paper. So, he found the person's name in charge of the case, a Detective Inspector Lestrade, and headed to New Scotland Yard to request a meeting. He ended up sitting an hour in the receiving area until Mycroft walked in and sat beside him.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" he'd asked softly.

Sherlock handed him the paper. "Look at this! Bunch of bloody idiots! Can't solve the case, and I've done it in less than ten minutes just from the papers. I came down to explain it to the idiots, but the bloody idiot won't see me. Too busy, he said. Some I intend to sit in this spot until I pass out from lack of food, water, or sleep, or he will come talk to me." He said the last loud enough to be heard by the receptionist who glared at him.

Mycroft stared at his little brother. And what he found made his heart leap. There was fire in his eyes. The sparkle, the life that had been missing for so long, it was alive in there. And he realized what was missing. Sherlock had a reason, a purpose, something he could do. Mycroft nodded and went to the receptionist slowly. After a few moments, a silvery haired man came down from the elevator, and shot a confused look at the receptionist. Mycroft smiled and waved him to where Sherlock was sitting.

"Tell him, brother. I've exerted a bit of influence for you."

Sherlock just stared for a long time. Never in his time as the British government as he called him had Mycroft used his influence to get something for Sherlock.

So Sherlock handed the paper to Lestrade and began to unravel the entire case without seeing a stitch of official evidence, bodies or crime scenes. Mycroft watched with a soft smile that was hidden behind a perfect mask of indifference. Could this be the answer? Sherlock was animated, talking a mile a minute, spinning out flawless observations and deductions, and then stopping when the DI needed clarification and further explanation of a point, making sure to drop a snide remark on the obvious lack of intelligence in his division. Finally he was done and bid the man good bye.

Mycroft stopped him from leaving, watching as Sherlock left. They had had a long conversation about his brother, the drug use, and an idea that had formed in his brain. An exchange. In return for remaining clean, Sherlock would be called in on cases that Yarders were in need of help with. Simple, really, the Yard got solved cases, and Sherlock had a reason to stay away from self-destruction at the hands of chemicals.

It was a week later Sherlock ended up nearly breaking Lestrade's jaw in his office when he'd reached out and yanking him back from the doorway to keep him from leaving yet. At first Lestrade was angry and then he saw. And he understood. The door was at his back, and he was pressed against it tightly, and Greg knew panic like that. He rubbed his jaw and moved around and talked him down off the attack, and when it was done he apologized, which Sherlock rarely did, but he liked Lestrade, and explained that he couldn't be touched like that, one of the reasons he refused to shake hands with others as well.

It was on a his first scene with Anderson when the forensics man decided that Sherlock really needed to move from his position immediately and had planted both hands on his biceps to bodily move him. Sherlock had frozen and flung around, hitting him right in the nose, sending blood flying and Sherlock falling backward to the floor, eyes wide and panicked. Lestrade had seen Anderson move to do it, and he was too late to stop it. It really was an automatic reaction, he realized. There had been no thought between the touch and the reaction, it simply happened. Anderson was yelling and threatening, and Sherlock was staring up with wide eyes as Anderson stood over him and Lestrade knew this would end badly if he didn't act quickly.

He shoved Anderson back and out of the way and dropped to his hands and knees in front of Sherlock, catching his eyes and talking him down like he had the last time. It was harder this time because Anderson's yelling had set off something else, and his eyes were not seeing him. When he was somewhere near normal, he led him out of the room, without touching him, of course, and put him in a cab home, promising he could come back after he'd settled back down, and he'd gotten Anderson out of the scene.

Sherlock avoided Anderson at all costs, mostly because when he tried to explain, the man with the bandaged nose told him to piss off and leave him alone. He usually apologized for these incidents, because they were out of his control, and that was really the only thing that made him apologize. He felt he should be in complete control of his body, and in those moments he was farther from it than he wanted to be. And to be honest, the whole thing scared him a bit. To be that out of control, it just sent him to a place in his mind palace that he'd locked. There were locks around that door, and there were fingernail scratches on the wood. Unlike the rest of his mind palace, this door was rough, old and weathered. Scratches, dents, and strange streaks of red decorated it, and it was locked with so many locks that Sherlock didn't think he had all those keys at all. The only thing he knew of locked tighter than that room was his own heart.

Sealed in someplace deep, was that part of himself that he didn't want anyone to see or affect. Heartless, they called him that. They claimed he had no feelings, that he was a machine, and felt nothing for the victims of the crimes he solved. He didn't understand. Why couldn't they see what he did? How could he solve cases if he let sentiment get in the way? Sentiment clouds judgment in far too many ways. Desire to see the good in people led people to ignore the obvious. So Sherlock did what others could not, or would not, do. He disconnected himself and looked at things objectively to such an extreme level that he was considered heartless.

The truth was he had a heart, one that yearned to be unlocked from the confines he had forced on it. A heart sat there, beating, wanting to be touched in a way that only one other had before, and that had ended so badly. But the heart didn't care how much it hurt, really. The heart wanted to be touched, caressed, loved…but it could not escape. To this lock, there was no key. Sherlock made sure of that.

At least, he thought he'd made sure of that. Leave it to fate to provide him with the one person that could forge the key to unlock the shuttered part of his self that he never wanted to release. And that person sat beside him now, arms crossed on the side of a hospital bed, surrounded by the sound of machines, and the smell of antiseptic. Soft sleeping sounds escaped his lips as his head rested on his crossed arms, face turned toward the head of Sherlock's bed. He smiled, reaching out tentatively with his right hand and brushed it over the short, blonde hair.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, snapping to a sitting positon.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

John smiled. "Not that long. I had them keep your sedated until they were done. Took your brother stepping in, though to get them to do it. Claimed it was a risk, and I explained it was better than them not being able to treat you at all."

Shelock nodded. "Can we go home? Can't you take care of me there? I can't let them change the dressigns, you know that. I wish I could just let them, I really do, John."

"Hey, don't worry. I've already been cleared to take care of everything from here out, but you'll have to stay tonight, just to make sure the patch up holds on the femoral artery. And after the blood transfusions. I'm glad your brother keeps a stock on hand…the hospital was low on your blood type. You had more blood than I'd have liked, but it doesn't matter. You'll have a painful recover, the bullet in your leg nicked the bone, and that's going to hurt like a bitch," John said with a sigh. "And you can't have narcotics, so we'll have to deal with the less effective medicines."

"That's okay John, as long as you're there, it's okay. I'll do fine. I know you're the best at what you do."

John blinked, surprised at the sudden compliment. He smiled, leaning over and brushing the hair from his forehead. "You had me scared. Good lord, Sherlock, I was covered in your blood when I went in the waiting room. I swear, my pants and shirt went right in the biohazard disposal. And my pants too! You can't imagine how scared I was that you'd lost too much. We do have to watch out for infection. My hands weren't really sterile when I went in and pinched the artery closed while we waited for the medics to get there."

"It felt weird, when you did that," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "It hurt, but it was more numb than anything, but it felt strange to have someone's fingers…" He stopped, wide eyed. John knew exactly what happened. He reached out and squeezed his hand.

"Hey, let's not talk about the terrible day we've had. It is dinner, and they're going to bring you some really terrible hospital food, and you are going to eat it, else I will not take you home tomorrow. Understand?" John said, arching a brow.

The look of pained surprise faded, replaced by a petulant pout. "I ate yesterday!"

"Sherlock…you are going to eat when they bring you food. And if I'm not happy, you will stay here tomorrow night as well," John insisted as the door popped open and a nurse came in with the aforementioned tray of food. She sat it down with a grin and reached out to pat Sherlock's shoulder as she spoke.

"Here, Mr. Holmes, there…hey!" she exclaimed as John snatched her hand in midair. She glared at him. "Excuse me, I can have you escorted out, Mr.?"

"_Dr._ Watson. Sherlock is hapnophobic. You do realize that means you aren't to touch him, I know it is in his chart," he said, letting her go.

She glanced at his hand laying protectively on him. "Obviously a mistake, because you're touch him, _doctor_."

"And I'm the only one who can. Hence the reason his chart states all medical procedures from now until discharge are done by me and only me. Otherwise, he'd have to be sedated every time they needed vitals or blood," John explained, squeezing Shelock's hand tightly again. His breathing was quickly approaching hyperventilation just from the thought of the nurse patting him like that.

"Sherlock? Come on. Me and you, remember," John murmured softly, brushing his hand over his soft curls. "Remember…you have to eat or I'll make you stay another night instead of taking you home. The food's here, as bad as I predicted, but you need to eat. After you slow your breathing down. Breathe, in…now out. In… now out."

Finally, Sherlock's breath slowed and he opened his eyes and glared at the tray. "But John," he whined. "I told you I ate yesterday! I don't need to eat today."

The nurse frowned and looked at John, who gave a long suffering sigh. "Sherlock, you _need_ to eat every day. Not just every three or four days."

"I drink tea, with milk and sugar even. That counts."

"Sherlock. Now. Eat. Or I will make you stay," he said sternly.

Sherlock glared at him and grumbled under his breath but at his tray slowly. It was truly not worth the effort, but if it was all he could get, he would eat, just to make sure John stayed happy. Because more than anything, he wanted John to be happy. And if eating disgusting hospital food would do it, then that is what Sherlock would do.

He smiled at the doctor, who was fretting over the machines, checking to make sure the IV was set right and the antibiotics were feeding properly. Then he fluffed the pillows behind him and sat back down.

"John, you should go get some sleep while you can," he said softly.

"Sherlock, you've had several major shocks in a row. And currently, I'm the only person that doesn't trigger massive amounts of anxiety in you. I can't leave. You know how hosptials are, vitals, blood, all that mess, all night long. No, I'll stay, then tomorrow after lunch, I'll get you settled back at Baker Street. Mycroft has already sent all the supplies I needed over as well as stocked the pantry and fridge with enough food to feed a small regimental army," he said smiling. "I can't have you pulling out any stitches, so don't argue about me staying. A full blown panic attack could cause a lot of damage that they spent a good part of today fixing. I won't have it."

"Yes, Dr. Watson," Sherlock said with a grin. "Or, in this case, you sound more like _Captain_ Watson."

John arched a brow. "Yes, well, whatever gets it through your thick skull that you need to listen to me, that's what I'll bloody well do, Sherlock Holmes."

"Giving everyone trouble already, eh, Sherlock?" came Lestrade's voice from the door.

Sherlock smiled at him and shook his head. "John exaggerates."

"Sherlock, I don't think so this time. You gave us all quite a scare. If John hadn't been there…there wasn't any of us that could have done what he did. I mean, I knew you'd been in a war zone, but to see you work like that, I was amazed," Greg said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway.

"Yeah, well, you learn how to patch up things with boot laces and tinfoil when you're out in the field. Luckily, boot laces weren't required this time. Though I did have to tie off an artery in the field one time with one of mine before," John said softly.

"Amazing, is what that is," Greg said with a soft sigh. "Anyway, I'm going for a pint, I know you aren't leaving, John, but Mycroft is in need of some relaxation, and after nearly an hour I've convinced him to go with me."

Sherlock grinned. "Good luck, Greg. Mycroft could use someone else to harp on besides me," he said finally. "And maybe you have his key."

Greg shook his head and headed out of the room, and John frowned at Sherlock. "What was that about?"

Sherlock sighed. "Keys, John. Mycroft and I…there are some things that we have no keys for, you know. Things that are locked up tight, away from everything else, and then one day, out of nowhere, someone shows up with a key that should not even exist. But there it is. Shining and glittering and golden. And well, neither of us know what to do. Maybe Lestrade has that key for Mycroft. No one else has ever come close to getting him to go to an actual pub before." He paused for a long moment. "Sentiment, is it worth it?"

"Of course, Sherlock," John answered without answering. "Most beautiful and terrifying and ugly and amazing things in the world are wrapped up in sentiment."

Sherlock nodded. "They certainly are. I…might have found my key…"

John wasn't sure he heard the last part correctly. "Might have found your key?" he asked softly, tightening his grip on the frigid hand he was holding.

"My key, John. Weren't you listening? I can't see any other explanation for why you can touch me and no one else can. I think…you might be my key."


End file.
